Crux: a Sunday Shoe Story

Cindy Says "Pasha" suede ankle boots

As the first flakes of December begin to spiral Earthwards a chill sets into my bones and into my heart. The trees have become barren of all but soot-winged crows, whose harsh voices harken the changing of the season. Frosts have begun to cover the grass each morn' and the brisk air of October has become heavy with the chill. Pumpkins have long since become rot and only imprints on cement serve to remind of the crisp leaves that used to crunch happily underfoot.

The world is slowing with the coming of the snows; it is ready for its hibernation, but still it remains awake to watch for the end. What is the moment of change if none are there to observe it? The voices of the North Wind's zephyrs whisper in the ears of the October People. With the first blanket of white they will be put to sleep, but until the crux comes their whispers will continue to spread a message of warning tinged with laughter.